Jennie Gerhardt: A Novel Read online

  JENNIE GERHARDT

  A NOVEL

  BY

  THEODORE DREISER

  AUTHOR OF

  "SISTER CARRIE"

  BONI and LIVERIGHT

  PUBLISHERS :: :: NEW YORK

  Copyright, 1911, byHarper & Brothers

  Copyright, 1911, byBoni & Liveright, Inc.

  Printed in the United States of America

  JENNIE GERHARDT

  CHAPTER I

  One morning, in the fall of 1880, a middle-aged woman, accompaniedby a young girl of eighteen, presented herself at the clerk's desk ofthe principal hotel in Columbus, Ohio, and made inquiry as to whetherthere was anything about the place that she could do. She was of ahelpless, fleshy build, with a frank, open countenance and aninnocent, diffident manner. Her eyes were large and patient, and inthem dwelt such a shadow of distress as only those who have lookedsympathetically into the countenances of the distraught and helplesspoor know anything about. Any one could see where the daughter behindher got the timidity and shamefacedness which now caused her to standback and look indifferently away. She was a product of the fancy, thefeeling, the innate affection of the untutored but poetic mind of hermother combined with the gravity and poise which were characteristicof her father. Poverty was driving them. Together they presented soappealing a picture of honest necessity that even the clerk wasaffected.

  "What is it you would like to do?" he said.

  "Maybe you have some cleaning or scrubbing," she replied, timidly."I could wash the floors."

  The daughter, hearing the statement, turned uneasily, not becauseit irritated her to work, but because she hated people to guess at thepoverty that made it necessary. The clerk, manlike, was affected bythe evidence of beauty in distress. The innocent helplessness of thedaughter made their lot seem hard indeed.

  "Wait a moment," he said; and, stepping into a back office, hecalled the head housekeeper.

  There was work to be done. The main staircase and parlor hall wereunswept because of the absence of the regular scrub-woman.

  "Is that her daughter with her?" asked the housekeeper, who couldsee them from where she was standing.

  "Yes, I believe so."

  "She might come this afternoon if she wants to. The girl helps her,I suppose?"

  "You go see the housekeeper," said the clerk, pleasantly, as hecame back to the desk. "Right through there"--pointing to anear-by door. "She'll arrange with you about it."

  A succession of misfortunes, of which this little scene might havebeen called the tragic culmination, had taken place in the life andfamily of William Gerhardt, a glass-blower by trade. Having sufferedthe reverses so common in the lower walks of life, this man was forcedto see his wife, his six children, and himself dependent for thenecessaries of life upon whatever windfall of fortune the morning ofeach recurring day might bring. He himself was sick in bed. His oldestboy, Sebastian, or "Bass," as his associates transformed it, worked asan apprentice to a local freight-car builder, but received only fourdollars a week. Genevieve, the oldest of the girls, was past eighteen,but had not as yet been trained to any special work. The otherchildren, George, aged fourteen; Martha, twelve; William ten, andVeronica, eight, were too young to do anything, and only made theproblem of existence the more complicated. Their one mainstay was thehome, which, barring a six-hundred-dollar mortgage, the father owned.He had borrowed this money at a time when, having saved enough to buythe house, he desired to add three rooms and a porch, and so make itlarge enough for them to live in. A few years were still to run on themortgage, but times had been so bad that he had been forced to use upnot only the little he had saved to pay off the principal, but theannual interest also. Gerhardt was helpless, and the consciousness ofhis precarious situation--the doctor's bill, the interest dueupon the mortgage, together with the sums owed butcher and baker, who,through knowing him to be absolutely honest, had trusted him untilthey could trust no longer--all these perplexities weighed uponhis mind and racked him so nervously as to delay his recovery.

  Mrs. Gerhardt was no weakling. For a time she took in washing, whatlittle she could get, devoting the intermediate hours to dressing thechildren, cooking, seeing that they got off to school, mending theirclothes, waiting on her husband, and occasionally weeping. Notinfrequently she went personally to some new grocer, each time fartherand farther away, and, starting an account with a little cash, wouldreceive credit until other grocers warned the philanthropist of hisfolly. Corn was cheap. Sometimes she would make a kettle of lyehominy, and this would last, with scarcely anything else, for anentire week. Corn-meal also, when made into mush, was better thannothing, and this, with a little milk, made almost a feast. Potatoesfried was the nearest they ever came to luxurious food, and coffee wasan infrequent treat. Coal was got by picking it up in buckets andbaskets along the maze of tracks in the near-by railroad yard. Wood,by similar journeys to surrounding lumber-yards. Thus they lived fromday to day, each hour hoping that the father would get well and thatthe glass-works would soon start up. But as the winter approachedGerhardt began to feel desperate.

  "I must get out of this now pretty soon," was the sturdy German'sregular comment, and his anxiety found but weak expression in themodest quality of his voice.

  To add to all this trouble little Veronica took the measles, and,for a few days, it was thought that she would die. The motherneglected everything else to hover over her and pray for the best.Doctor Ellwanger came every day, out of purely human sympathy, andgravely examined the child. The Lutheran minister, Pastor Wundt,called to offer the consolation of the Church. Both of these menbrought an atmosphere of grim ecclesiasticism into the house. Theywere the black-garbed, sanctimonious emissaries of superior forces.Mrs. Gerhardt felt as if she were going to lose her child, and watchedsorrowfully by the cot-side. After three days the worst was over, butthere was no bread in the house. Sebastian's wages had been spent formedicine. Only coal was free for the picking, and several times thechildren had been scared from the railroad yards. Mrs. Gerhardtthought of all the places to which she might apply, and despairinglyhit upon the hotel. Now, by a miracle, she had her chance.

  "How much do you charge?" the housekeeper asked her.

  Mrs. Gerhardt had not thought this would be left to her, but needemboldened her.

  "Would a dollar a day be too much?"

  "No," said the housekeeper; "there is only about three days' workto do every week. If you would come every afternoon you could doit."

  "Very well," said the applicant. "Shall we start to-day?"

  "Yes; if you'll come with me now I'll show you where the cleaningthings are."

  The hotel, into which they were thus summarily introduced, was arather remarkable specimen for the time and place. Columbus, being theState capital, and having a population of fifty thousand and a fairpassenger traffic, was a good field for the hotel business, and theopportunity had been improved; so at least the Columbus people proudlythought. The structure, five stories in height, and of imposingproportions, stood at one corner of the central public square, wherewere the Capitol building and principal stores. The lobby was largeand had been recently redecorated. Both floor and wainscot were ofwhite marble, kept shiny by frequent polishing. There was an imposingstaircase with hand-rails of walnut and toe-strips of brass. Aninviting corner was devoted to a news and cigar-stand. Where thestaircase curved upward the clerk's desk and offices had been located,all done in hardwood and ornamented by novel gas-fixtures. One couldsee through a door at one end of the lobby to the barbershop, with itschairs and array of shaving-mugs. Outside were usually two or threebuses, arriving or departing, in accordance with the movement of thetrains.

  To this caravanserai came the best of the political and socialpatronage of
the State. Several Governors had made it their permanentabiding place during their terms of office. The two United StatesSenators, whenever business called them to Columbus, invariablymaintained parlor chambers at the hotel. One of them, Senator Brander,was looked upon by the proprietor as more or less of a permanentguest, because he was not only a resident of the city, but anotherwise homeless bachelor. Other and more transient guests includedCongressmen, State legislators and lobbyists, merchants, professionalmen, and, after them, the whole raft of indescribables who, coming andgoing, make up the glow and stir of this kaleidoscopic world.

  Mother and daughter, suddenly flung into this realm of superiorbrightness, felt immeasurably overawed. They went about too timid totouch anything for fear of giving offense. The great red-carpetedhallway, which they were set to sweep, had for them all themagnificence of a palace; they kept their eyes down and spoke in theirlowest tones. When it came to scrubbing the steps and polishing thebrass-work of the splendid stairs both needed to steel themselves, themother against her timidity, the daughter against the shame at sopublic an exposure. Wide beneath lay the imposing lobby, and men,lounging, smoking, passing constantly in and out, could see themboth.

  "Isn't it fine?" whispered Genevieve, and started nervously at thesound of her own voice.

  "Yes," returned her mother, who, upon her knees, was wringing outher cloth with earnest but clumsy hands.

  "It must cost a good deal to live here, don't you think?"

  "Yes," said her mother. "Don't forget to rub into these littlecorners. Look here what you've left."

  Jennie, mortified by this correction, fell earnestly to her task,and polished vigorously, without again daring to lift her eyes.

  With painstaking diligence they worked downward until about fiveo'clock; it was dark outside, and all the lobby was brightly lighted.Now they were very near the bottom of the stairway.

  Through the big swinging doors there entered from the chilly worldwithout a tall, distinguished, middle-aged gentleman, whose silk hatand loose military cape-coat marked him at once, among the crowd ofgeneral idlers, as some one of importance. His face was of a dark andsolemn cast, but broad and sympathetic in its lines, and his brighteyes were heavily shaded with thick, bushy, black eyebrows. Passing tothe desk he picked up the key that had already been laid out for him,and coming to the staircase, started up.

  The middle-aged woman, scrubbing at his feet, he acknowledged notonly by walking around her, but by graciously waving his hand, as muchas to say, "Don't move for me."

  The daughter, however, caught his eye by standing up, her troubledglance showing that she feared she was in his way.

  He bowed and smiled pleasantly.

  "You shouldn't have troubled yourself," he said.

  Jennie only smiled.

  When he had reached the upper landing an impulsive sidewise glanceassured him, more clearly than before, of her uncommonly prepossessingappearance. He noted the high, white forehead, with its smoothlyparted and plaited hair. The eyes he saw were blue and the complexionfair. He had even time to admire the mouth and the fullcheeks--above all, the well-rounded, graceful form, full ofyouth, health, and that hopeful expectancy which to the middle-aged isso suggestive of all that is worth begging of Providence. Withoutanother look he went dignifiedly upon his way, but the impression ofher charming personality went with him. This was the Hon. GeorgeSylvester Brander, junior Senator.

  "Wasn't that a fine-looking man who went up just now?" observedJennie a few moments later.

  "Yes, he was," said her mother.

  "He had a gold-headed cane."

  "You mustn't stare at people when they pass," cautioned her mother,wisely. "It isn't nice."

  "I didn't stare at him," returned Jennie, innocently. "He bowed tome."

  "Well, don't you pay any attention to anybody," said her mother."They may not like it."

  Jennie fell to her task in silence, but the glamor of the greatworld was having its effect upon her senses. She could not help givingear to the sounds, the brightness, the buzz of conversation andlaughter surrounding her. In one section of the parlor floor was thedining-room, and from the clink of dishes one could tell that supperwas being prepared. In another was the parlor proper, and there someone came to play on the piano. That feeling of rest and relaxationwhich comes before the evening meal pervaded the place. It touched theheart of the innocent working-girl with hope, for hers were the years,and poverty could not as yet fill her young mind with cares. Sherubbed diligently always, and sometimes forgot the troubled mother ather side, whose kindly eyes were becoming invested with crows' feet,and whose lips half repeated the hundred cares of the day. She couldonly think that all of this was very fascinating, and wish that aportion of it might come to her.

  At half-past five the housekeeper, remembering them, came and toldthem that they might go. The fully finished stairway was relinquishedby both with a sigh of relief, and, after putting their implementsaway, they hastened homeward, the mother, at least, pleased to thinkthat at last she had something to do.

  As they passed several fine houses Jennie was again touched by thathalf-defined emotion which the unwonted novelty of the hotel life hadengendered in her consciousness.

  "Isn't it fine to be rich?" she said.

  "Yes," answered her mother, who was thinking of the sufferingVeronica.

  "Did you see what a big dining-room they had there?"

  "Yes."

  They went on past the low cottages and among the dead leaves of theyear.

  "I wish we were rich," murmured Jennie, half to herself.

  "I don't know just what to do," confided her mother with along-drawn sigh. "I don't believe there's a thing to eat in thehouse."

  "Let's stop and see Mr. Bauman again," exclaimed Jennie, hernatural sympathies restored by the hopeless note in her mother'svoice.

  "Do you think he would trust us any more?"

  "Let's tell him where we're working. I will."

  "Well," said her mother, wearily.

  Into the small, dimly lighted grocery store, which was two blocksfrom their house, they ventured nervously. Mrs. Gerhardt was about tobegin, but Jennie spoke first.

  "Will you let us have some bread to-night, and a little bacon?We're working now at the Columbus House, and we'll be sure to pay youSaturday."

  "Yes," added Mrs. Gerhardt, "I have something to do."

  Bauman, who had long supplied them before illness and troublebegan, knew that they told the truth.

  "How long have you been working there?" he asked.

  "Just this afternoon."

  "You know, Mrs. Gerhardt," he said, "how it is with me. I don'twant to refuse you. Mr. Gerhardt is good for it, but I am poor, too.Times are hard," he explained further, "I have my family to keep."

  "Yes, I know," said Mrs. Gerhardt, weakly.

  Her old shoddy shawl hid her rough hands, red from the day's work,but they were working nervously. Jennie stood by in strainedsilence.

  "Well," concluded Mr. Bauman, "I guess it's all right this time. Dowhat you can for me Saturday."

  He wrapped up the bread and bacon, and, handing Jennie the parcel,he added, with a touch of cynicism:

  "When you get money again I guess you'll go and trade somewhereelse."

  "No," returned Mrs. Gerhardt; "you know better than that." But shewas too nervous to parley long.

  They went out into the shadowy street, and on past the low cottagesto their own home.

  "I wonder," said the mother, wearily, when they neared the door,"if they've got any coal?"

  "Don't worry," said Jennie. "If they haven't I'll go."

  "A man run us away," was almost the first greeting that theperturbed George offered when the mother made her inquiry about thecoal. "I got a little, though." he added. "I threw it off a car."

  Mrs. Gerhardt only smiled, but Jennie laughed.

  "How is Veronica?" she inquired.

  "She seems to be sleeping," said the father. "I gave her medicineagain at five."


  While the scanty meal was being prepared the mother went to thesick child's bedside, taking up another long night's vigil quite as amatter of course.

  While the supper was being eaten Sebastian offered a suggestion,and his larger experience in social and commercial matters made hisproposition worth considering. Though only a car-builder's apprentice,without any education except such as pertained to Lutheran doctrine,to which he objected very strongly, he was imbued with American colorand energy. His transformed name of Bass suited him exactly. Tall,athletic, and well-featured for his age, he was a typical stripling ofthe town. Already he had formulated a philosophy of life. To succeedone must do something--one must associate, or at least seem toassociate, with those who were foremost in the world ofappearances.

  For this reason the young boy loved to hang about the ColumbusHouse. It seemed to him that this hotel was the center andcircumference of all that was worth while in the social sense. Hewould go down-town evenings, when he first secured money enough to buya decent suit of clothes, and stand around the hotel entrance with hisfriends, kicking his heels, smoking a two-for-five-cent cigar,preening himself on his stylish appearance, and looking after thegirls. Others were there with him--town dandies and nobodies,young men who came there to get shaved or to drink a glass of whisky.And all of these he admired and sought to emulate. Clothes were themain touchstone. If men wore nice clothes and had rings and pins,whatever they did seemed appropriate. He wanted to be like them and toact like them, and so his experience of the more pointless forms oflife rapidly broadened.

  "Why don't you get some of those hotel fellows to give you theirlaundry?" he asked of Jennie after she had related the afternoon'sexperiences. "It would be better than scrubbing the stairs."

  "How do you get it?" she replied.

  "Why, ask the clerk, of course."

  This plan struck Jennie as very much worth while.

  "Don't you ever speak to me if you meet me around there," hecautioned her a little later, privately. "Don't you let on that youknow me."

  "Why?" she asked, innocently.

  "Well, you know why," he answered, having indicated before thatwhen they looked so poor he did not want to be disgraced by having toown them as relatives. "Just you go on by. Do you hear?"

  "All right," she returned, meekly, for although this youth was notmuch over a year her senior, his superior will dominated.

  The next day on their way to the hotel she spoke of it to hermother.

  "Bass said we might get some of the laundry of the men at the hotelto do."

  Mrs. Gerhardt, whose mind had been straining all night at theproblem of adding something to the three dollars which her sixafternoons would bring her, approved of the idea.

  "So we might," she said. "I'll ask that clerk."

  When they reached the hotel, however, no immediate opportunitypresented itself. They worked on until late in the afternoon. Then, asfortune would have it, the housekeeper sent them in to scrub up thefloor behind the clerk's desk. That important individual felt verykindly toward mother and daughter. He liked the former's sweetlytroubled countenance and the latter's pretty face. So he listenedgraciously when Mrs. Gerhardt ventured meekly to put the questionwhich she had been revolving in her mind all the afternoon.

  "Is there any gentleman here," she said, "who would give me hiswashing to do? I'd be so very much obliged for it."

  The clerk looked at her, and again recognized that absolute wantwas written all over her anxious face.

  "Let's see," he answered, thinking of Senator Brander and MarshallHopkins. Both were charitable men, who would be more than glad to aida poor woman. "You go up and see Senator Brander," he continued. "He'sin twenty-two. Here," he added, writing out the number, "you go up andtell him I sent you."

  Mrs. Gerhardt took the card with a tremor of gratefulness. Her eyeslooked the words she could not say.

  "That's all right," said the clerk, observing her emotion. "You goright up. You'll find him in his room now."

  With the greatest diffidence Mrs. Gerhardt knocked at numbertwenty-two. Jennie stood silently at her side.

  After a moment the door was opened, and in the full radiance of thebright room stood the Senator. Attired in a handsome smoking-coat, helooked younger than at their first meeting.

  "Well, madam," he said, recognizing the couple, and particularlythe daughter, "what can I do for you?"

  Very much abashed, the mother hesitated in her reply.

  "We would like to know if you have any washing you could let ushave to do?"

  "Washing?" he repeated after her, in a voice which had a peculiarlyresonant quality. "Washing? Come right in. Let me see."

  He stepped aside with much grace, waved them in and closed thedoor. "Let me see," he repeated, opening and closing drawer afterdrawer of the massive black-walnut bureau. Jennie studied the roomwith interest. Such an array of nicknacks and pretty things on manteland dressing-case she had never seen before. The Senator's easy-chair,with a green-shaded lamp beside it, the rich heavy carpet and the finerugs upon the floor--what comfort, what luxury!

  "Sit down; take those two chairs there," said the Senator,graciously, disappearing into a closet.

  Still overawed, mother and daughter thought it more polite todecline, but now the Senator had completed his researches and hereiterated his invitation. Very uncomfortably they yielded and tookchairs.

  "Is this your daughter?" he continued, with a smile at Jennie.

  "Yes, sir," said the mother; "she's my oldest girl."

  "Is your husband alive?"

  "What is his name?"

  "Where does he live?"

  To all of these questions Mrs. Gerhardt very humbly answered.

  "How many children have you?" he went on.

  "Six," said Mrs. Gerhardt.

  "Well," he returned, "that's quite a family. You've certainly doneyour duty to the nation."

  "Yes, sir," returned Mrs. Gerhardt, who was touched by his genialand interesting manner.

  "And you say this is your oldest daughter?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "What does your husband do?"

  "He's a glass-blower. But he's sick now."

  During the colloquy Jennie's large blue eyes were wide withinterest. Whenever he looked at her she turned upon him such a frank,unsophisticated gaze, and smiled in such a vague, sweet way, that hecould not keep his eyes off of her for more than a minute of thetime.

  "Well," he continued, sympathetically, "that is too bad! I havesome washing here not very much but you are welcome to it. Next weekthere may be more."

  He went about now, stuffing articles of apparel into a blue cottonbag with a pretty design on the side.

  "Do you want these any certain day?" questioned Mrs. Gerhardt.

  "No," he said, reflectively; "any day next week will do."

  She thanked him with a simple phrase, and started to go.

  "Let me see," he said, stepping ahead of them and opening the door,"you may bring them back Monday."

  "Yes, sir," said Mrs. Gerhardt. "Thank you."

  They went out and the Senator returned to his reading, but it waswith a peculiarly disturbed mind.

  "Too bad," he said, closing his volume. "There's something verypathetic about those people." Jennie's spirit of wonder andappreciation was abroad in the room.

  Mrs. Gerhardt and Jennie made their way anew through the shadowystreets. They felt immeasurably encouraged by this fortunateventure.

  "Didn't he have a fine room?" whispered Jennie.

  "Yes," answered the mother; "he's a great man."

  "He's a senator, isn't he?" continued the daughter.

  "Yes."

  "It must be nice to be famous," said the girl, softly.